09/11/2026
When I was a little girl, I knew I would get married someday.
I knew it the way most kids know things; with the kind of wild abandon that doesn’t need to consult logistical arrangements. I had a precise understanding that I would spend my adult life with a kind hearted, easy-going man named “Toby.“
He would respect my professional aspirations, which, at that time included being both a pediatrician and a marine biologist. We would enjoy a frenetic, deeply loving life with three daughters, the youngest of which would be adopted.
And that would be the way it was.
I also knew that people thought I was different. I observed how other children watched me with what began as curiosity and later became something much more damaging: fear. But I never thought this would preclude me from being who I wanted to be: a wife, a mother, a professional.
To be honest, I never really realized that men didn’t notice me in the way that women want to be noticed until college. It began to dawn on me that although I had so painstakingly created a life where I was “included“ like everybody else, I remained invisible in many ways. I did my best to entice the few crushes I got close to as friends into something more, even going so far as to help routinely one friend with his homework. To no avail. I remained the perpetual, as*xual friend.
I went so far as to design and implement a voluntary honors thesis about s*xuality and disability. I subconsciously thought that perhaps, if I wasn’t the only person with a disability being sidelined romantically, maybe I would feel like less of a weirdo. I thought that perhaps the data I collected could be used to help educate, illuminate and dismantle all of the terrible things we tell each other about perceived differences.
I believed that perhaps this information could help us evolve, bolster humanity, dismantle stereotypes and hell, maybe, help me get a date.
Although I can’t say that I know any man who would be tickled by reading academic data, I did what I could given the resources and talents I had. With virtually no experience with romance, I counted on my intellectualism to hopefully pave the way to a meaningful connection with a man.
When that didn’t work, I tried harder to be loved. And I’ve been trying harder my whole damn life.
So where is “Toby“?
So now I’m 38 years old and I still want to be a mother, a wife and a meaningful partner in a long lasting relationship. To say that I’ve exhausted my internal and external resources to have a chance at experiencing my childhood expectations, would be an understatement.
Would it be erroneous for me to believe that I am single because I have a disability? Has the research I’ve done on these topics penetrated my psyche to such a degree that I am overthinking the impact of my perceived differences on men?
Yes and no.
I’ve become aware that trying harder is not the solution. In fact, it is representative of the very problem that underlies the core of my research. People with disabilities are socialized to believe that they are inherently wrong, broken and need to compensate in order to be loved.
There’s no question about whether or not I’ve spent a lifetime attempting to compensate. Clearly, I have.
So, where do I go from here? How do I have an opportunity to have a wonderful, loving partnership with a man when there are so many societal and logistical barriers? There are no easy answers to these questions and unlike many of my other posts, this is not a linear narrative. I don’t have an answer, a hopeful crush waiting in the wings, or some other way to wrap this package up in a pretty bow.
All I can say is that I’ve learned from my own academic research and my personal experiences that there is a lot of damaging misinformation out there about disability and s*xuality, in fact, you can read all about it in my book.
In the meantime, here’s my PSA:
Yes, I can have s*x. (It’s not painful or scary. I’ve done it before any everything was just peachy.)
No, my disability is not genetic.
Yes, I can have a baby.
Yes, I can be a parent.
That’s all for now!
(Please note: I’m not looking for advice for different things to try. If anything, my point is that the TRYING HARDER is part of the problem, it’s not the solution.
Also, if you think “Toby“ could be your son, nephew, brother or friend, please let me know!)
